


Always And Forever The Last Day Alive

by geckoholic



Category: Batman (Comics), DCU (Comics), Grayson (Comics), Midnighter (Comics)
Genre: Altered Mental States, Blood Loss, From The Sepsis, Hospitalization, Hurt Dick Grayson, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Major Character Injury, No Drugs Involved, Unconsciousness, accidental confessions, sepsis
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-07-13
Updated: 2017-07-13
Packaged: 2018-12-01 18:45:06
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,244
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11492421
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/geckoholic/pseuds/geckoholic
Summary: All that said, there are certain situations where Dick sure does feel like having himself a good, long, whiny rant. This is one of those. He can't remember the last time he had more than two consecutive hours of sleep, he's alone, sweating and on the verge of dehydration, and there's a piercing pain in his side that tells him he didn't make it out of his last altercation with what he assumes were his former Spyral colleagues unscathed.Aka the one where Dick - separated from Tiger on his quest to take down Spyral - runs into a little bit of trouble. Not to worry, though, he's got help from an unexpected corner andthatsure takes a few surprising turns of its own.





	Always And Forever The Last Day Alive

**Author's Note:**

> Sort of a trade (the corresponding art by pentapoda is [here](https://pentapoda.tumblr.com/post/163077343538/lostemotion-took-me-up-on-my-offer-of-an-art-fic)) and sprung mostly from the idea of someone (okay no, Dick, it was Dick _specifically_ , hehe) being hurt and somewhat out of it. Also it took me ages to get done because writing these two still has me nervous as hell, which is unfortunate because they remain my favorite DC pairing. Or maybe that's why, because my brain is an asshole like that and there's precedent. ANYWAY. Now it's done and out of my head and I am free of it, so enjoy. XD
> 
> Beta-read by beta_lactamase, thehazardsolove and navaan. Thanks to all three of you!! ♥ All remaining mistakes are mine.
> 
> Title is from "Last Day Alive" by The Chainsmokers.

One of the things that being partner to the Batman immediately cures you of is _complaining_. Bruce hardly tolerates a lot of talk as it is. He scowls and grumbles when he's had too much of their banter, which tends to happen rather quickly. Registering displeasure that is not directly related to an injury, however, is a different topic. On his more relaxed days, he'll give out a short reprimand; on bad days, he'll meet any arising complaint with a deadpan _if you don't want to be here, go home_. And it's not like Dick's ever been prone to ranting and raving, anyway. His parents had similar rules when it came to his training in the circus. 

All that said, there are certain situations where Dick sure does feel like having himself a good, long, whiny rant. This is one of those. He can't remember the last time he had more than two consecutive hours of sleep, he's alone, sweating and on the verge of dehydration, and there's a piercing pain in his side that tells him he didn't make it out of his last altercation with what he assumes were his former Spyral colleagues unscathed. Knife wound; the whole thing was hectic and over in mere minutes, and that one of them got close enough to injure him is a testament to how exhausted he'd already been going in. The next item on his to-do-list is finding a quiet place to rest and quite literally lick his wounds. That might be harder than it sounds; Ljubljana isn't small and this part of the city is busy, which is both a blessing and a curse. On the one hand, he can easily blend into the crowd, and not even Spyral would resort to shooting up a flock of civilians just to smoke him out. On the other, every speck of ground is occupied. No empty storefronts or abandoned warehouses in sight. Not even the alleyways are free of curious bystanders. 

Dick speeds up his pace, palm pressed to the wound in his side. He doesn't have to lift his hand and check to know that he's bleeding steadily; the slick wetness coating his fingers is clue enough. What he needs is a first aid kit and a convenient bolthole to take care of that, but yeah. Neither's likely to appear within the next few minutes. 

This would all be easier if he wasn't alone. He should have known splitting up is never a good idea, no matter how reasonable it might sound in theory. There's been a bunch of good reasons why he conscripted Tiger into the whole Operation: Take Down Spyral thing in the first place, and Dick should have brought up a few more of those when Tiger suggested they divide and conquer for this one. They'd gotten news of another pair of agents arriving for a mission in Zagreb this morning and Tiger was supposed to find some sort of transport as soon as at all possible. With Dick's current luck, he's hours away at this point. 

That train of thought is rudely interrupted when a passerby rushes past him, jostling against him as she walks past. Dick hisses, and while she turns her head around, mumbling an apology but not even so much as slowing her steps, his vision blurs with a fresh wave of pain. Out of sheer instinct, he presses down harder, feels the blood pulse underneath his palm, feels it well up between his fingers. It's been a good twenty minutes since he got jumped. Okay, fuck. He _needs_ to take care of that wound, and soon. 

His next few steps are stumbling, unsure, before he manages to pull himself together and block out the aching in his side. He briefly considers calling out for help, but well, he's been stabbed, and if he lands himself in a public hospital that's bound to bring up complications. He'll do this alone. He just needs somewhere to hide. 

He nearly jumps out of his skin when he feels a hand close around his biceps, followed by the heat and weight of another body close to his. Years of training take over instantly, long before his brain can come up with a conscious response, and he rams his elbow into the newcomer's side, shifts his weight so he's able to cant his foot and trip them up. 

“Quit fighting me,” says a voice that's faintly familiar, if not immediately recognizable. “I'm here to help.” 

Dick finally remembers that nothing's stopping him from turning his head to _look_. The reddish Mohawk that greets him is pretty distinctive. He's taken off the cowl, probably to avoid drawing too much attention, but he's still in uniform otherwise. Dick relaxes. Not his first choice for backup, maybe, for a variety of reasons, but that he comes with a built-in escape route is an upside. 

“What are _you_ doing here?” Dick inquires, then decides that's not actually his most pressing concern. “Can you door us to– “

“Afraid not,” Midnighter cuts him off, frowning. “They're jamming me. Got in, can't get out, or jump around locally for that matter.” 

There goes the escape route. Dick's about to put in a complaint to that effect when Midnighter cocks his head, eyes narrowing. 

“You're hurt,” he says, matter of fact, and the expression on his face, serious and calculating, makes Dick imagine the upgrades inside his brain as they whir away on incoming environmental information. “Your heart rate is too slow, your breathing too fast, and your body temperature's skipping below parameters as well. That's blood loss.” 

Before Dick's got the chance to answer, his arm his released, and the hand Midnighter had used for that comes up around his waist, covering Dick's where it's pressed to his side. Dick freezes at the sudden contact. Midnighter curses. 

“How long?” he asks. He retracts his hand, wiping the blood off on his suit, and moves out of Dick's personal space so that they're walking side by side again. 

“Coming up on half an hour,” Dick says, and it's oddly comforting to fall into report mode. Give all the relevant information on the injury sustained, be precise and realistic. Besides, even having someone to report to means his situation has improved. “Got stabbed. I haven't had time to check yet, but the blood flow hasn't stopped. I zoned out for a second just before you arrived, but that was from jarring the wound, not getting bleary. Otherwise I'm still clear.” 

Midnighter nods, one corner of his mouth lifting, but he doesn't quite make it all the way to a grin. “Bat's running a tight ship, huh? Or is that from the Spyral agent handbook?” 

Dick decides he's not going to dignify that with a reply – the last thing he's in the mood for is discussing field training – and instead repeat the question that's still swirling through his head. Not like he isn't grateful for the assist, but... “You still haven't told me what you're doing here.” 

“What's it look like?” Midnighter replies, toneless, on the tail end of a sigh. “I've been in the area, I heard you're here, and kept an eye out for you. Checking in, you could call it.” 

And that's enough of a bombshell that Dick slows down, coming to a halt. “You've been keeping tabs on me? You do realize that veers dangerously close to creepy stalker territory, right?” 

Midnighter shoots him a look, nudging his arm again to get him to keep walking. “Why don't you tell me all about that once I've made sure you're not bleeding out right here on the street?” 

Before Dick manages a comeback, demanding to know just how he plans on doing that, Midnighter's hand closes around Dick's shoulder. And oh, he should really stop doing that. Dick's grateful for the contact, the comfort that lies in any touch right now, but Midnighter continues to confuse him. The last time they've been touching each other this much, they've fought, and it's a little bit weird, for Dick, trying to sort out how his body should respond to the proximity. _Fight him off_ is still in there, but it's watered down, and turned around, and hey, okay, maybe Dick's getting a little bit woozy after all. He stumbles again, finds himself caught by an arm curling around his middle, keeping him steady. Embarrassment crawls up his spine, stupidly, even though he knows it's a natural symptom. His body's deteriorating, and quickly. Dignity is the least of his concerns. 

“There's a motel down the street,“ Midnighter says, pulling Dick out of his head, and points at an old residential building with a nondescript sign Dick couldn't have deciphered on his own. “I'll book us a room and find us a first aid kit, and then we'll have a look at that leak you've got there.” 

Dick scowls, because really, is that supposed to be _funny_ , and he opens his mouth to ask just that, but another thought shoots into his head. He squints at the sign, which still refuses to make sense to him. It could have been a restaurant, or hell, a post office. “Wait, you speak Slovenian?”

“Computer. In my head.” Midnighter quirks an eyebrow, as if to ask whether he really has to explain the whole shebang again. Or maybe he's trying to gauge how many of Dick's marbles have left the building already. “Besides, I've been around the block a lot more than you have.” 

Any other time, Dick may have been tempted to argue the point for a bit, compare notes and experience, but right now words are starting to get wee bit elusive. He doesn't resist when Midnighter deposits him against the timber framing of aforementioned motel. He closes his eyes and listens to the strange sound of a voice he kinda-sorta knows speaking a mostly foreign language. 

 

*** 

 

The room is pretty basic – a bed, a table with two rickety chairs, a kitchenette consisting of two cooking plates and a sink, a bathroom small enough that two people would have trouble turning in it – and looks like not a single thing has been changed about it since roughly the Seventies. But it's a safe place, for now, and as soon as Midnighter lowers him onto the soft mattress of the bed, Dick decides it might as well be a room in heaven. The bedding is fluffy and European, and he lets himself fall backwards, breathing in deep. 

“Don't you dare fall asleep on me,” Midnighter warns, and Dick can't quite work out if the tone implies worry or agitation. “I'll find us a few supplies. Be right back.” 

Dick promptly ignores him, drifting off, and zones back in to a bottleneck pressed to his lips, cold liquid pressing against his mouth. He's also vertical and it takes a few seconds for the realization to trickle in that there's a warm body at his back and an arm curled around his torso, holding him upright. He startles, even though or maybe despite remembering who that is, and in response the grip relaxes, but it does persist. 

“Hey, shh,” says Midnighter, and everything about this is too intimate to not be confusing, the touch, his breath against Dick's neck, the soothing yet vaguely irritated tone of his voice and the way he starts rubbing his thumb against the thin fabric of Dick's shirt where he's holding him up. “I thought by now we established that I'm not going to hurt you. I have no intention to do that. We've got to keep you hydrated, and we've got to take care of that wound. Come on, let me help.” 

There's probably a misunderstanding going on here about the reason for Dick's reaction, but Dick's not about to correct it. He does go slack against the other's body, relaxing into the contact as he reminds himself that dignity is a concern for later, and parts his lips, greedily gulping in long swigs of water. 

That ends on a cough, and the bottle is removed. Dick hears Midnighter sigh, and this time it's definitely annoyance. He's released, gently lowered back down, and the bed dips when Midnighter moves a few inches up the mattress. 

“Alright,” he says. “I have bandages, a sewing kit, and a lighter to heat up a knife if we need that. What I don't have are painkillers or sedation, so this won't be pleasant.” 

Dick finally remembers to blink his eyes open. He sends a glance around the room, sees the kit and bandages on the nightstand, a few wet towels from the bathroom, a bottle of some liquor whose label Dick can't decipher, a small butcher's knife, and a Zippo. 

The smile Midnighter offers him looks alien on his face, unhidden sympathy and so far from the cocky grins he likes to throw around. Then it vanishes, replaced by a lewd wink that's more par for the course. “If you want my help undressing you, just say so. Been dying to do that since Russia.”

Dick glares at him in return, and moves to pull his shirt over his head. He freezes halfway, though, drawing a sharp breath. He can't quite bring himself to ask for said help, gives Midnighter a pleading glance instead, who meets Dick's eyes and, with another one of these unusually soft smiles and none of the lascivious intent he implied moments earlier, peels Dick's shirt away from the wound and up his outstretched arms. His touch is careful, measured, and makes goosebumps spread on Dick's skin. If it weren't for their current circumstances it might even be enjoyable. 

That thought is cut short before Dick can given it further attention. Midnighter leans back and offers Dick the bottle of liquor for a swig, then takes one himself when Dick declines. Next, he douses one of the towels and his hand finds the cut in Dick's side, which still hasn't stopped bleeding. Dick screws his eyes shut. Pleasant or not, this has to be done. 

He manages the disinfection just fine, if with clenched teeth. The alcohol aggravates the wound, but it's bearable. That's not the worst part. He eyes Midnighter's hands when they reach for the knife and the lighter next, and oh, how Dick had been hoping that wouldn't be necessary. Yet he can't look away until the blade glows faintly orange, and Midnighter searches his gaze. Dick nods, even though he's pretty sure no one's ever actually going to be ready for _that_ part. The heated knife touches his skin, and he knows he imagines the ugly hiss as it connects; the blade isn't hot enough and this isn't like branding a horse. 

What he doesn't imagine is the pain, suddenly consolidating under the knife tip searing his flesh. He hears himself screaming, the sensation distant and oddly familiar. Then it all fades to black. 

 

***

 

This time, when he wakes, he's laid out on his back, upper body slightly elevated and propped up on a whole armada of fluffy throw pillows. The pain from the wound has subsided back to a dull ache, and his hand comes up to find it neatly dressed and covered by fabric again. The latter isn't stiff from dried blood, but a little damp, which means it must have been washed or at least partly scrubbed in the meantime. 

“Didn't know you'd make for such skilled nursemaid,” he ventures, before he's even opening his eyes. That's fast becoming a habit; somehow, today, he much prefers the darkness between his eyelids to the real world out there. Is it even still today? Dick blinks, and finds the room dipped into half-dark, the only light floating in from the street lamps outside. He doesn't try and puzzle out why his current knight in shining black armor would vote against turning on the room's overhead lights. 

All the reaction he gets to his previous statement is an affronted snort from the other side of the room. Dick tries to locate him in the dim light, finds he has to blink a few more times to achieve that. Their eyes meet, and Midnighter frowns, all emotion purged from his expression, and strides over. He sits on the edge of the bed, and now he too just looks tired. Is that even possible? Does he get tired, or exhausted? Dick has no idea. 

Dick startles at the hand on his forehead, somewhat roughly but yet again gentler than he imagined him capable, all things considered, what with the super fiber for muscles. It's retracted immediately upon his flinch, however, and instead Midnighter fixes him with another one of those unreadable, calculating glances. 

“This isn't right,” he says. “Your vitals are all over to place, and your body temperature is still elevated. I'd even say you're working up to a fever. Something else is wrong.” 

And on second thought, yeah. He does feel feverish. His body feels cold and too warm at the same time, skin clammy, head swimming. Trying to conjure up the flickers of the knife he'd caught mid-fight, he tries to remember whether it might have been smudged or dirty. There's the possibility of blood poisoning, if it was. He doesn't point that out, though; he's reasonably sure Midnighter's aware that's an option. 

“What do you remember?” Midnighter asks, tone all business. 

Sitting up, Dick concentrates, tries to ignore the implications of that getting a bit harder. “They caught me in an alleyway while I was shadowing one of Spyral's active agents.” He glances towards Midnighter. “Did you hear about that? Tiger and me, we sort of, uh. Defected.” When the other waves a hand to continue, Dick does, not particularly surprised the news have made the rounds. “There were three, at first, two coming in later. Couldn't catch any faces, they were masked. Which makes sense, I suppose, since Hypnos cancel each other out. Anyway, no guns, they had swords and knifes. Avoiding a commotion, I'm guessing. You can't just open fire in a busy street and hope no one notices – “ 

“But they didn't chase you any further?” Midnighter interrupts, shaking his head, looking irritated. “Did you see the knife?”

There's something else on his mind that Dick isn't privy to, and Dick shrugs his shoulders, a sharp twinge of pain reminding him why unnecessary gestures are maybe not the best idea right now. “No, they didn't. And I did see it briefly, but only after, when it was drenched in blood. I didn't exactly stop to take a picture.” 

Midnighter frowns at that, and Dick glares back, somewhat automatically. Yeah, _he_ probably could have snapped a perfect mental picture. Hell, he would have seen the damn thing coming and not get stabbed in the first place. They're both aware of that. Moving on. 

“After I realized that he got me and it wasn't just a scratch, I made a run for it. Fast forward, and there you were, you know the rest,” Dick finishes, but somewhere along the way he had lost the attention of his audience. 

Midnighter's looking at the window, brow furrowed, head cocked in concentration as if he's chasing a low sound. Dick follows his line of sight, but can't see anything in the dark. He startles when Midnighter curses, with feeling, then looks at Dick, and for a moment the expression flickering over his face almost seems _guilty_. 

Before Dick's still hazy brain can even attempt to make sense of that, Midnighter's got him picked off the bed and is throwing him over his shoulder in a fireman’s carry. Dick's side throbs anew, jarred by the movement, and he's rather sure if he'd have time to look he'd see fresh blood on the bandages. He doesn't; Midnighter breaks into a sprint, across the room and through the hallway, quick enough that Dick's fingers dig into his shoulders for fear he might get thrown off if he loses his grip. 

Behind them, the room erupts into a cloud of heat and smoke and flying debris. 

 

***

 

Dick's pride allows him to accept being carried for roughly as long as it takes them get out of the immediate area of the motel. The fire stands out harshly against the dark sky when he looks back, and he can hear sirens in the distance. The motel is going to swarm with first responders and law enforcement soon. But from here, a few backalleys away, the risk of being discovered seems manageable, even if it means they're fleeing a bit more slowly. It's past nightfall, and they're still in a busy city. 

He pats Midnighter's shoulder. “Let me down. I can walk, you don't have to keep lugging me around.” 

Moments later Midnighter complies, putting him back on his feet with care but also without much of a warning, and Dick sways a little, his vision swimming. It's not the pain; his side still hurts, but walking on his own doesn't aggravate it that much more than being carried. No, what threatens his balance is the change in altitude, as well as the simple act of keeping himself upright in the first place. Midnighter was right – there's something else going on with him, beyond the blood loss. His head throbs with every step, he's shivering and sweating at the same time, and it's hard to focus. He's getting septic. And that means they're not only short a hideout now, but also on a timer. 

But still, pride. Like hell is he going to admit any of that while they're still on the run. He straightens, suppresses the groan that wants to escape his lips at the movement. Midnighter sighs, likely aware of Dick's condition, but he doesn't point it out. He waits until Dick's caught his bearings, then jerks his head to a parking lot down the street. Dick nods, and manages to keep pace when they head in that direction. 

“Your moral compass okay with stealing a car?” Midnighter asks, and it's a transparent and rather unimaginative attempt at teasing, offering a distraction. 

Not an offer Dick's above taking, however. “As long as we don't crash it and leave it where it can be found later.” 

Midnighter barks a laugh. “If it helps you sleep at night, I might even be able to scrunch together some cash we can leave in the car as an apology.” 

The idea that he'd think that far doesn't strike Dick as out of character, not like it would have a few months ago, after they first encountered one another. Their methods may differ, but by now Dick did work out that their motivations are the same; saving those who cannot save themselves. Reimbursing some poor civilian for the stress of worrying they lost what, around here, might be their only reliable mode of transportation, comes down to that same bottom line. 

Dick lets Midnighter pick the car, break into it and get it running, contents himself with trying to blink the spots out of his vision. Idleness doesn't help him stay alert, or pretend that his body isn't gradually breaking down on him, and by the time Midnighter informs him they're ready to go, he's not all that ashamed anymore to climb in and all but collapse into the passenger seat. 

He closes his eyes, and he's starting to drift off before they even leave the city limits. 

 

*** 

 

Dick's new surroundings, when he wakes, are a lot less comfortable than the bed and pillows from last time. A flat surface, rough and uneven, his head cushioned on... he doesn't know. Something that wasn't meant for this exact purpose, he's sure. He remembers parts of the drive here, unsure of what's memory and what's assumption, but he knows this much: they left the car a little while off and walked into a forest, which he insisted on doing on his own two feet. Their hope was finding a cabin or the like, but no such luck, and when it became apparent that Dick's not going to be able to go the distance, they settled for a small cave. That happened during the night and some hours must have passed since then, because by now the opening to said cave is illuminated by a small sliver of daylight. It doesn't reach very far inside, and Dick still has to squint to make out anything useful. He's freezing too, but that might be more due to his fever than the actual temperature in here. There's a fire going a few feet away, and if he concentrates he can make out a thin line of blue light in front of the cave opening; some sort of electronic trap. The kind of gimmick Midnighter would carry around, who must have set it up while Dick was asleep, because he doesn't remember being around for that. 

Speaking of Midnighter, where is he? Dick moves to prop himself up on his elbows and groans, his muscles stiff from disuse and the uncomfortable position. He looks around, calling out, and feels a bit ridiculous at not knowing Midnighter's actual name. Dick's calling people by their codenames out on the job all the time, but that's in the field and there's a difference between doing that because the work requires it and doing that because he simply doesn't know. 

There's a rustle from beside him, and moments later Midnighter leans into view. Dick turns to take him in better: he's sitting by on the ground with his legs crossed, and he's shed his coat, cowl still off, which both serve to make him look a little less imposing and a little more human. For some reason the contrast between Midnighter in full getup and Midnighter in civvies is a bit harsher than between, say, Bruce and Batman or Jason and Red Hood. He seems otherworldly when he's working, and almost startlingly human when he's not. But maybe that's just because Dick knew the others as people first; Midnighter being an actual person was something he didn't even _consider_ until their involuntary team up in Russia. 

“Good morning, beautiful,” Midnighter says. He's smiling again, which in itself is still odd. That effect is multiplied by the expression beyond the smile: that _is_ guilt, mixed with worry, no doubt about it anymore. 

Dick doesn't understand. He can't think on it too hard either, because half his brain seems stuffed with cotton wool and out of commission, and he flops back down, the movement halted by Midnighter's hand on his shoulder, catching him, guiding him down a little slower. And, oh yeah. Not a bed. Hard stone. Dick might have momentarily forgotten about that.

His head hits the not-a-pillow, and he reaches out, touching the material. Leather. The coat Midnighter wasn't wearing. “What's going on? Where are we?” 

“Still in Ljubljana, technically,” Midnighter says. “If we're going by postal codes, anyway. Also, I have good news and bad news.” Dick raises an eyebrow, indicating that he's not in the mood for banter, and Midnighter continues. “The good news is, the guys who got you aren't Spyral and they're not actually here for you, so none of what just happened is your fault. I know that matters to you. Bad news is, that makes getting out of here even more complicated.” 

“Even more – ” Dick starts, and then he remembers that getting out from _anywhere_ in Midnighter's company is usually not complicated at all. “I forgot. You told me. No doors.” 

“Nope,” confirms Midnighter, squinting at him, but he doesn't get into any more detail. 

Which is fine by Dick, really, because he's been awake for all of five minutes, if that, and he's already zoning out again. Lengthy explanations would be lost on him right now. If he were more with it, he'd probably be concerned about that, but the headache is back, his mouth dry and filled with a foul taste reminiscent of bile, and in the space of their conversation his perception of the temperature in here shifted from shivering cold to nauseatingly hot. Or maybe the nausea showed up on its own, independent from the sweating. Whatever. In any case, it's not a good sign, Dick can still piece together that much. 

 

***

 

He doesn't drift off all the way again, but reality does get fuzzy around the edges, here and there. It doesn't take long for the shivering become almost constant, and he's well aware what that means in regards to the fever. He thinks of his first winter as Robin, out on the street in that flimsy costume, cursing his choices made the previous summer and determined to not show Bruce so much as a shiver or clattering teeth. That's not too much of a concern now; they both know that Midnighter's monitoring his vital signs, which makes keeping up a front about how shitty he feels and how quickly it's getting worse a bit of a moot point. 

One thing they share, though, Bruce and Midnighter, apart from their taste in costumes, is the annoyance at Dick's attempts at distracting conversation. And just as he did when he was a teenager on patrol, Dick doesn't much care that he's lacking a captive audience for his witty commentary. Well. Not so witty, currently, he would allow, given that he's got to force his way past the fog in his brain. Still, he's had plenty opportunities to develop coping mechanisms for this kind of situation, and Midnighter will just have to deal with being talked at until they're out of here. 

On the tail end of an anecdote from one of his recent missions with Tiger, a little tidbit of coherent, logical thought pierces the veil of Dick's deteriorating ability to put two and two together. They were in Qatar before they came here, and in Paris before that, and he remembers seeing a transmission about Midnighter's suspected whereabouts from ARGUS. He looked at the log, then, trying to figure out if hailing him for support would make sense, and none of their locations in the past _month_ lined up. Not since Russia and Germany, not since he helped them taking a stab at Mother with the entire family. At the time, Dick had the fleeting thought that it'd reeked of avoidance, but then decided that Midnighter would surely be above that. But he's not so sure anymore, and if he'd actually gone out of his way to not run into Dick on accident, then he wouldn't have... 

“You weren't keeping tabs on me,” Dick says, and Midnighter, who'd gotten up to check the trap by the cave entrance, turns around, eyes snapping to Dick's. His shoulders sag, and he smirks. 

“No,” he confirms. “You're nice to look at, but no one's _that_ hot.” His expression sobers, and he walks back over, sinking into a crouch by Dick's side. “I got a message about an hour before I found you in the city, with your location, a demand for Garden tech, and a warning that they'd put you in a body bag if I didn't deliver.” 

Dick stares at him. That doesn't make sense. Well, the basic concept does, holding loved ones hostage to press someone into following a demand is one of the oldest tricks in the book, but that requires a connection to work. Enough of an emotional attachment to create a pressure point, and Dick can't quite picture Midnighter caring that much for anyone. Sure, he knows they've been flirting and all, he's done Dick a few favors, but that was casual... right? It's not like there's anything _real_ here. Or is there? 

“Oh, fuck it,” says Midnighter, on a sigh, and plucks Dick right out of his line of thought. “Stop. Judging by your readouts, trying to think your way out of a paper bag might give you an aneurysm at this point, so I'm going to spell it out for you: yep, they were trying to blackmail me into handing over deadly weapons by going after someone who matters to me, and who's human enough that he can actually be hurt.” He shifts, sitting down with his legs stretched out in front of himself, parallel to Dick's body, and averts his eyes. “I ignored them, and next thing I knew I got a blurry CCTV screenshot of you, stumbling around Ljubljana.” 

Even though he'd already been halfway there before Midnighter confirmed that suspicion, Dick's mind stutters to halt. He cocks his head, searches for the others gaze, doesn't let up until Midnighter grumbles, looks back up, and meets his eyes again. “Hold up,” he says then. “Are you telling me I matter to you?” 

“That's your main takeaway here?” Midnighter asks, and his tone hints that _that_ wasn't the part he expected Dick would stumble over. 

Dick's still clear enough to guess what it was he did think Dick might take issue with. “Yeah. I mean, of course you wouldn't meet a stupid ransom demand, out of the blue, for weapons that might hurt god knows how many innocent people, especially when the person that was threatened is supposed to know how to look after themselves.” He shakes his head for emphasis, regrets that when it rattles his headache. He winces, rubs his temples. He notices a small movement in his periphery, and looks down, where he sees Midnighter's hand curl like he wants to reach out, but doesn't. “I wouldn't do that. Batman wouldn't do that. Helena or Tiger wouldn't do that either.” 

Once he's got all his wits about himself again, Dick is going to examine the fact that there was a qualifier in Midnighter's previous statement, calling Dick someone he cares about that's _human enough to be hurt_ and how that means there are others he cares for, and that they're not fully human either, that they're like him. For now, Dick sits halfway up, ignoring the stab of pain that causes. 

“You care about me,” he points out and smiles, giving it a teasing edge that's probably getting lost in his attempts to appear unaffected by agony and nausea and the violent shiver that runs through him just then, as if to remind him of his mortality, his fragility. “You like me. As in, _like_ -like.”

“What is this, fifth grade?” Midnighter rolls his eyes. “What I like about you is your shapely – “ 

“Please don't say ass.” Dick shakes his head, noting the deflection, and almost moves to put up a hand before he remembers he needs both arms to hold himself up. He lowers himself back down, but, once there, doesn't actually deign it worth the effort to complete the gesture. Moving continues to hurt. He's getting tired, and so _so_ exhausted. 

“ – everything?” Midnighter finishes, and furrows his brows. “Also, you sure you want to discuss this now?” 

“Nope,” Dick concedes, biting down on a yawn. “Totally not insisting on that.” 

This time Midnighter's hand does come up to his forehead – taking Dick's temperature, down to several numbers behind the comma, he guesses – and it lingers there while his expression turns to obvious, unhidden concern. Must be getting real serious then. “Sleep. Get some rest. I'll work on getting us out of here.” 

The stubborn streak in Dick still rebels against just sleeping through the rest of this and letting someone else do all the work, but his eyes are so heavy, and his body so close to the edge of what it’s willing to put up with. He shifts, making himself halfway comfortable, and closes his eyes. 

 

*** 

 

Dick's woken by gentle pressure on his shoulder, a hand shaking him awake. He blinks, waits for his consciousness to catch up and make sense of where he is, what's going on. The first thing that registers is the pain; worse than the last time he was conscious, and when he reaches for the source of it he finds the wound is warm to the touch, even through the bandage, and that small amount of pressure already sends searing agony up his spine. Someone's talking to him, saying his name a few times over. 

The reaction to that is ingrained and automatic, and Dick glances up. “What...?” he starts, then realizes he doesn't know how to finish that question. _What's going on? Why did you wake me?_ He feels like he should know the answer to both. 

“Dick,” Midnighter says, just once, louder now, and when he meets the other's eyes, he looks... not hectic, exactly, he's perfectly composed, but impatient, displeased by the delay. 

Dick licks his lips and nods. He can listen, at least. That should be doable. 

“I have to go out, leave you alone for a bit,” Midnighter says. “And I need you to stay awake while I'm gone. Can you do that? The trap should keep out any unwanted guests, but…” – and there he shoves a tiny, alien-looking gun onto Dick's lap – “in case they manage to disable it, you aim this at the space above the entrance, okay? It'll break off some of the stone and block the entrance. That's the best I can do without telling you to shoot anyone who enters this cave and isn't me.” 

Dick just blinks at him some more. That's more words in one go than he's currently able to process, mind and body still lagging. He flinches away when Midnighter's hand wanders from his shoulder to his forehead, feeling for his temperature again. The result must be worse than anticipated, seeing how it prompts a low curse. And Dick spent enough time propping up the kind of person who takes every injury to those around him onto his own conscience for that to, in turn, trigger another automatic response in him. He grits his teeth and breathes in deep, through his midriff, in order to force some of the mold from his synapses. 

“Gun. Entrance. Blocking. Got it.” Then he frowns, because there's still some obvious holes in his understanding of this... he's going to be generous and call it a plan. “How're you getting back in, then?” 

Midnighter winks at him, actually fucking _winks_ , and halfway delirious or not, that just looks wrong. “Don't worry about that. I have a few more toys with me.” His hand wanders again, briefly stroking the outline of Dick's jaw and holding his eyes, looking deeply unhappy at whatever he finds written in them. Then he rises to his feet. “For now you just have to stay awake and hold on a little bit longer, okay?”

Dick nods, and winces when that makes the world swim around him. But he forces a smile, repeats the motion. “Okay. No problem.”

Judging from the way Midnighter's expression tightens, they both know that's a lie. But he doesn't comment further, doesn't reiterate, and moments later he's gone, walking out of the cave, his gait as sure and confident as ever. Determined. Dick just hopes he's stubborn enough for the both of them. 

 

***

 

There's no way to count the hours, but Dick manages to keep his promise and stay awake for long enough that he sees the twilight outside the cave turn to the dark of night. Somewhere in the back of his mind fear builds at the seeing that another day has passed; he's trying to track how much time has passed since he was stabbed, calculate it against how much time he might have left before the poisonous bacteria invading his bloodstream becomes more than his body can handle. He doesn't want to die, much less out here, an ocean away from his home and his family, on the outskirts of a town whose name he can hardly pronounce. But it's been more than a day, now, and sooner or later the sand in his hourglass will have run through. 

He passes out a little while later, and he only catches glimpses of what happens next. There's shouting and clatter, the noises of a fight. There's the cold night air around him as he's carried off again, bridal style this time, his fingers holding on so tightly to the arm of the person carrying him that he must be leaving scratches, bruises, some sort of mark. He catches bright lights and a whiff of hospital smells after that, more indiscernible shouting but with a different tone and cadence, a different kind of urgency. 

When he regains consciousness it's to the constant low murmur of voices, speaking a language he can't understand, distant, floating to his ears from another room, and the all too familiar beeping of medical machinery. His brain is still scrambled, but this time he recognizes it as the also not altogether novel sensation of being on the good stuff: painkillers, sedatives, the whole nine yards. He raises his hand and pulls slightly, and yep, there it is; he feels a needle move under his skin, put there to inject the meds directly into his veins. 

He opens his eyes and everything is still too bright, stars dancing in his vision as he raises his needle-free hand to shield them from the glare of the rows of fluorescent lights above his bed. 

“Don't,” says a voice that gets easier to place every time he wakes. “Don't move around so much, you'll pull your stitches.” 

Dick turns his head. “Can't feel anything,” he says, accompanying it with a dopey grin, all teeth. “No pain whatsoever.” 

That earns him a frustrated huff. “Still doesn't mean it's a good idea.” 

The other's hand wraps around his wrist and guides his arm back down to rest on the mattress next to his torso, and Dick can't quite sort out whether or not he should protest the touch. It makes his skin tingle, adds another layer of confusion. He's not in a habit of bonding with his erstwhile enemies – or antagonists, rather, enemy seems too harsh a term in hindsight – and their transition from foe to friend is still a work in progress. Whatever might lay beyond that requires even deeper trust, and trusting someone he used to fight, well... there has been precedent, sure, but not enough to take away the mindfuck of it all. 

_Trust._ That box, at least, they have checked already. Here he is, injured and laid up, drugged to kingdom come and kept too weak to battle a kitten, and there's not a fiber left in his body that tells him to fear the man sat across from him, on one of those contraptions that hospitals all over the world dare to call _chairs_ and with the stiff posture of someone who hasn't moved from that very spot in several hours. He's wearing civilian clothes, Dick now notes, and that should be a hint, he just currently can't figure what it means.

“You've changed,” Dick says, and, when Midnighter hefts an eyebrow, gestures to the jeans and light brown dress shirt that have replaced the remainders of his uniform. 

“Ah, that,” he replies. “Midnighter Tours is back online. I contacted your partner, and I'll get you two reunited as soon as you're stable.” 

“You got 'em.” The words come out slurred, and if he'd had all his wits about him, that'd be another thing for Dick to be be embarrassed about. As it is, he gives that toothy grin a second showing. “The stabby bunch.” 

Lips curling up and then thinning back out, like he's trying to hide amusement lest it be taken as mockery, Midnighter leans back. He groans at the change in position, which Dick takes as confirmation that he definitely hasn't moved from that chair in a while. When he speaks again, his voice has gone soft; softer than Dick's ever heard him. “Of course I did. I got them all.” 

The tone almost makes it sounds like an apology, and Dick wants to reassure him that he doesn't bear grudges about what happened. Water under the bridge. He was the conceived weak spot of the Batman since he's been a teenager, a pressure point many sought to press. He's far more preoccupied with the newfound knowledge that, somewhere along the way, he apparently also turned into a chink in the Midnighter's armor. 

Dick cocks his head and looks him over. He imagines what he'd feel if the tables were turned, and there is a pinch of... something. Not a feeling fully formed, he doesn't think, but the idea of losing him stings. The thought of watching him hurt, especially on Dick's behalf, causes anger. And there's the question of physical attraction, which, now that he's looking for it, well. Dick quite enjoys how the thin shirt spans over his shoulders, open wide enough in front to allow a peek at the rise of his pecs, making Dick regret he didn't pay attention to the unobstructed view of them back in Russia. A lot has happened since then. He's paying attention _now_. 

Under normal circumstances, Dick is aware, he'd keep such revelations to himself. Drugged out of his mind, however, he can't really remember why. “I like you too, you know. Maybe. I'm not sure. I think I like looking at you, though.” 

Midnighter sighs, briefly closing his eyes, and pinches the bridge of his nose. “I told you, I don't want to have that conversation with you while you're out of it. Actually, I'm not all that certain I _ever_ want to have that conversation with you.” 

There's a hesitant edge to his voice, and that makes it sound less like a rejection and more like wariness. Like he thinks that, if they'd have a serious conversation about this once Dick is recovered, the jury wouldn't come out in his favor. From that angle, never talking about it means he'd never have to hear the verdict. 

Dick pushes himself up against the cushions, wincing at the odd sensation of putting pressure on the hand with the needle in it. His hand-eye-coordination is as shot as everything else, and it takes some wrangling until the IV drip is positioned so that he can lean forward without the risk of ripping it free. The stitches Midnighter mentioned earlier also stretch uncomfortably, though he's still overall too numb to hurt. He'll pay the price for this once the painkillers wear off, but that's a problem for later. 

He leans forward and, naturally, miscalculates the distance. What was supposed to be a quick, smooth maneuver ends up with him pitching inelegantly half out of bed and into Midnighter's lap. The latter curses and sits him back up, while he himself stands and resettles on the edge of Dick's bed. 

But that's alright. It also achieves the desired end result, which was to get Midnighter close enough so Dick can let actions speak louder than words, and Dick promptly seizes the opportunity. His lips are softer than Dick expected – soft is still not an adjective that seems to fit him on the whole – and for a moment he even kisses back, almost like it's a reflex, muscle memory or, dare we say, wish fulfillment. 

Then he puts both hands on Dick's shoulders and pushes him away. “What the fuck do you think you're doing?” 

“Expressing my gratitude?” says Dick, aiming for wounded innocence. He should probably be grateful he isn't so far gone that he'd accentuate that with an indignant pout. 

Midnighter is back on his feet, staring at him. "That's not...” he starts, then shakes his head ever so slightly, voice dropping into something eerily similar to the tone he uses for uttering threats, but missing the venom to make that work. "I don't want your fucking _gratitude_."

He damn near spits the last word, and Dick looks down, blinks a few times. The drugs have him feeling crestfallen and lost, like a child getting told off, or worse, sent away. A few more notches on the painkiller scale, he suspects, and he'd also be blinking away tears. At some point in the not-so-far future, he's going to be very, very embarrassed about all of this indeed. 

When he glances back up, Midnighter has taken a few more steps away from the bed. The expression he wears is more agitated than Dick usually sees him, more open, and he looks... conflicted, mostly. Like he wants nothing more than to leave this room and be done here, but he'd also feel guilty for leaving. 

“I didn't mean it like that,” Dick says, in a fumbling attempt to smooth things over. He likes to think he's more eloquent, usually, but, well. Drugged. “And I – “

Midnighter walks back over and sinks heavily into the chair, taking a breath, much in the way Bruce tends to do when he tries not to yell. “Do me a favor right now and just _shut the hell up_.” 

Because he's currently possessing the emotional maturity of twelve year old, Dick spends a few seconds gaping at him, digging for a rejoinder, but then he settles for a petulant scoff, slumps back onto the pillows, and keeps his trap shut. In return, Midnighter stays. Dick decides he's struck worse deals in his time. 

 

***

 

Dick is stuck in that hospital in Ljubljana for five days total. The doctor still looks a tad unhappy when Midnighter translates Dick's request for an early release on his own responsibility, but there's a wayward spy organization to pursue and he's left Tiger to do so alone for too long already.

Sitting on the bed, he listens to the way Midnighter's voice wraps around the vowels, and yet again suspects a familiarity with the language – or the regional group of languages – that stems from more than a passing knowledge. No way he's going to ask, though. Not now. Maybe later. He watches Midnighter trail after said doctor while answering another question, and return a couple minutes later with what Dick guesses are his discharge papers. It's not like Dick can read them. There's weird accents on the letters and everything. They could just as well sell him a washing machine. But he signs on the dotted lines where Midnighter points them out, and then they're both sitting on his bed, far enough that either of them would have to lean over for them to touch anywhere. 

“And thus ends the story of how I landed you in the ICU in goddamn Slovenia,” says Midnighter, and glances up, with an expression that would look contrite on anyone else but on him still just looks vaguely pissed off, even might be at himself. 

“Ah, don't feel bad about it,” Dick shoots back, shrugging his shoulders. “You didn't put me there personally, and besides, this is just the most recent in a long line of near death experiences.” 

The offered absolution isn't accepted, it appears, because Midnighter grimaces and stands. “Your partner should be waiting outside. I'll leave you to it.” 

He turns to leave, headed for the door, and Dick almost lets him. _Almost._ But cowardice when it comes to saying things that need to be said has never really been his style. "I remember, by the way," he says, and as previously predicted, shame about his behavior creeps up his neck. But he refuses to just let this go. "The kiss, and what you told me in that cave. And I still think we should talk about it." 

Midnighter sighs, but he does turn back around. "Go ahead and talk, then." 

Dick gives him a smile. A sheepish one, and he hopes it counts towards an apology. "That might be easier if you come back here." 

That produces an eye roll, and Midnighter stays exactly where he is. “Talk.” 

“Alright,” says Dick, disappointed even though he understands the need to maintain physical distance. “It's true that I haven't thought about you like that before. Uh, much, I guess? And honestly, I would never have expected you'd be interested. I mean, for real. Beyond the teasing and the flirting and all that. We're not... How do I say it, we don't always play on the same team.” 

“Yeah, I suspected as much,” says Midnighter, but it's not until his lips curve up into a shark grin that Dick realizes what he said. 

He cringes. “That wasn't what I was trying to – ” 

“I know.” Midnighter's expressions clears, and he waves a hand for him to go on. 

“My point is, _it hadn't occurred to me yet_ isn't the same thing as _I would never go there_.” Dick pushes his mouth together into a thin line and stands, although he stays in place, doesn't attempt to get any closer yet. “Look, I'm just saying, how about we just take this for a spin? See what happens?”

“How about we don't?” replies Midnighter, outwardly unmoved. “Because it's also not the same thing as _I want you and I know what I'm doing_.”

He's not wrong, and that's reasonable, even if not the reaction Dick was hoping for. Dick doesn't know what he's doing, that much is true. He doesn't even know what it really is that he wants. It's like he said: there's an idea in his head now and he'd like to see where it leads. He's curious. He's intrigued. He also realizes how that might be unfair if the other party brings actual, real feelings to the table, which is still a concept he can't, in this case, quite wrap his head around.

Midnighter shakes his head, frowning. “You don't get told no very often, do you?” 

Dick wants to protest – he's not a spoiled child, and he can accept rejection – but he loses track of the rejoinder when Midnighter steps into his space with two long strides, suddenly right there. He gently taps the underside of Dick's jaw and tips it upwards, then leans in to meet him. It's a straightforward kiss, neither experimental nor particularly careful, not dirty yet but also not playing around. It's also over way too soon, and just when Dick reaches out for his hand, attempts to twine their fingers together, he draws back. 

“Think about this,” he says, pulling his hand away as well. “Let the idea sit for awhile, and if you still want to give it a shot in, I don't know, a few weeks, we'll see if we can make it work.” 

There's another counterargument lodged in Dick's throat, but he swallows it down. Arguing the point right now would be selfish, dishonest, so he nods. “Okay.” 

 

***

 

They walk out of the room together, but Midnighter wordlessly heads the other way after a few meters, in the opposite direction of the elevators that are Dick's destination. Off to find himself a quiet place to teleport, Dick assumes, safely hidden from prying eyes. 

Dick presses the button for the next elevator downstairs and waits, sorting out the explanation he'll give Tiger once they've joined up, because the whole story feels too private, feels like spilling someone else's secrets. The doors ping open and he steps inside, palm pressed to the bandage still wrapped around his middle, then leans against the wall, the metal cool and unyielding against his back. 

_A few weeks._ Something to think about while he follows his former colleagues around the globe, jet-lagged to hell and back and catching cat naps whenever they have a few hours between chasing and being chased. It's not like he'll be bored in the meantime. 

The doors ping again, signaling his arrival on the ground floor. Dick gives the bandage one last pat and walks out into the lobby, ready to leave Slovenia in his rear view mirror.

**Author's Note:**

> Find me on [tumblr](http://lostemotion.tumblr.com).


End file.
